


The Private Strigas Affair

by riverbed



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bloodletting, Dirty Talk, Knife Play, M/M, Name Calling, Roleplay, Spanking, dom!illya, interrogation kink, sub!napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon persuades Illya to go back undercover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Private Strigas Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [a prompt on the kink meme](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=573824#cmt573824&sref=https://delicious.com/kinkfromuncle/verse%253Atv), and definitely took creative license here, but made it happen just the same.  
> This fic can probably be read in either the tv show universe or movie universe, if you assume that, by some stretch, they're the same one.
> 
> Noncon tag is here just to be safe (for consensual noncon roleplay.) I'm really not here to squick anybody out so I always tag for just-in-cases.

Napoleon got far too wrapped in his cons, Illya thought. He knew the agent approached all things headfirst, dangerous in his excitement, his eagerness to tackle missions and prove himself – this fact was simply a bullet on the list of things that annoyed him about the American, but Illya could not wrap his head around _this_.

Solo had approached him while they were both a little drunk, had seduced him before springing the fantasy on him. “Remember Strigas?” he had prodded, a corruptive grin playing at his lips as his fingertips danced across the soft skin of Illya's stomach. Illya had scoffed and tried to forget about it, but if there was anything Solo was better at than running cons, it was nagging, and if there was anything Kuryakin had a soft spot for, it was Solo. And so here he stood, wig and coat and eyeglasses and steel-toed boots, suddenly feeling completely out of his depth.

He glanced back at his partner, kneeling and open in the center of the sitting-room. His hands were behind him – Illya had arranged them such. His head was tilted back slightly, his neck bared, his shirt and hair mussed. Illya knew he got off on a bit of manhandling, and had made a show of handcuffing him earlier. Now he knelt, waiting, as the Russian studied his own reflection in the window. “If you think you're going to get information out of me by making me fill the silence,” Solo said, but Illya could hear his voice faltering, “your bosses are not very smart.”

Illya turned to face him. “Nyet, Cowboy, I think they're very right about you Americans being all the same, are they not?” He loomed over him, now, staring him down, and reached out to run his hand up from Solo's neck to his jaw. “Impatient, greedy...” He gripped Solo's chin, hard. “Even now, you were unable to bear the quiet without hearing yourself speak. You're all talk, you American pigs, no real substance there. Just noise.” Illya held his jaw firmly and forced his thumb between the Westerner's lips, letting the promise of that wet heat go to his head. “My bosses were wrong about this, though; they should not have trusted me with mission,” he spat. “I'm more likely to shut you up than get any information out of you. But do not fret, Cowboy,” he reassured, moving his hand to the back of Solo's head, yanking his hair. “Will still be put to good use.”

He eyed his partner's vest and personal effects, spread out on the table behind him from when he had “searched” him. “What do you take with you, Cowboy?” he said, absently, passing Napoleon to hover his hand, flat, a few inches over the selection of items. His cufflinks, earpiece and microphone, beaten-up Zippo, and – ah. That was it. He ran his palm over the carved wood handle of Solo's pocketknife. It was a sentimental thing, a souvenir from his father from the war, and Solo was nervous whenever it was handled by anyone other than himself, as if it were fragile, a porcelain doll – Illya knew this, but Secret Police Interrogator Illya did not care. He flicked the freshly-sharpened blade out, watched the tip of it glimmer in the lamplight. It was a beautiful blade, kept well-maintained with Napoleon's dedicated care.

He crossed back across the room, invading Solo's space and trailing the dull edge of the knife from the nape of his neck to the front, slowly, letting himself press in to dent the pale skin. He felt Napoleon's pulse quicken under the weight of the blade as he reached his Adam's apple, watched him squeeze his eyes shut and not dare to tilt his head back down.

“You are listening to me now, Cowboy, so I will say once and only once: I am here to get all the information I can out of you, and I will do whatever it takes to break your resolve, what little you have.” He rotated the blade vertically so that the sharp edge inched closer to his chin.

“Thoughts?” Solo leaned backward slightly, instinctively trying to distance himself from the knife. Illya moved right up into him, standing entirely over him now, his stance wide around Napoleon's hips on the floor where he was kneeling and his groin nearly against his chest. This pushed Solo off-balance, so that the only thing keeping him from toppling backward was Illya's hand cradling the back of his head. He held the knife steady, still just centimetres away from a part of Napoleon's neck where he could do some real damage.

“If you slice my throat,” Napoleon offered, “that leaves you very little intelligence to reap from me.” He smiled, wincing when Illya actually pressed the sharp edge against his skin. Illya chuckled.

“You are right, Cowboy! I have incentive to keep you alive.” Quickly, calmly, he moved the knife from its position at Napoleon's throat and nicked swiftly through the fabric covering his upper arm, cutting with only the effort of a half-rotation of his wrist. Solo yelped and thrashed, looking up at Illya, his mouth parted in shock and his eyes glazed with lust. Illya carefully held the knife out of the way as the tiniest bit of red started filling the white cotton threads of his partner's shirt surrounding the cut. He could feel a familiar pang in his belly at the sight, a darkness stirring. He was as good as high on this – his slight bloodlust was surprisingly easy to forget in the line of duty, with all the guns at play, but put a knife in his hands and Illya was as good as gone. Suddenly his interest in this game of Napoleon's was renewed, and he bent over the American, gripping his tricep with his free hand and licking across the hole in the fabric.

Solo responded beautifully, gasping and attempting to grind against Illya, desperately seeking friction. “American whore,” Illya lobbed at him menacingly. “Now I know I can't go easy on you if I expect to get the desired response.”

“What... exactly... _ow_... is it you desire?” Napoleon growled. Illya stood up straight again and sneered, shrugging his coat to the floor, the knife deposited in its pocket. “Poor choice of words, Cowboy. And yet...” He unlatched his belt, yanking it through the loops with a whisper, and cursed under his breath as his fingers ghosted over his cock through his trousers as he undid his buttons.

“You are going to be very useful to me, American whore. There's no transmission possible from this room. Do you know what that means?” He let his fly drop open and reached into his underwear, palming his cock and going a bit dizzy. “That means,” he continued, enjoying watching Solo's tongue dart out to wet his lips, “nobody will come to American's rescue. It means you will be so spent and used and fucked and broken when I'm finished with you that you will gladly offer up any information I ask for, so long as I fuck you again. You will beg, Cowboy, I will take.” He pulled himself out of his briefs, pushing his cock into Solo's face. “You are so easy, Cowboy. How many spies have you let fuck you? How many times have you been in this position?” He pushed past Solo's lips, not really giving him time to anticipate it. “You have reputation. Dangerous hedonist. Throws himself stupidly into missions, lots of very precarious face-offs with targets. I used to think you talked your way out of them. Now I know you are used to getting on your knees.”

Illya wrapped his belt around Solo's neck, pulling him flush against his hips without warning. He let himself enjoy the wet heat that was the agent's mouth and felt his gag reflex fight against him, his thick cock filling his throat and his eyes going wide. Pulling back out, he gave Solo little time to adjust before slamming back in, watching his pupils dilate before Solo sank fully into subspace, his eyes closing, relaxed in bliss. “That's it, slut. Take this cock like you take all the rest. Filthy slut,” he said again, using the leverage of the belt to piston his hips forcefully. He was panting, swearing and calling Napoleon a number of names in Russian and English as he fucked his mouth, drunk on the tears rolling down Solo's cheeks to hit his lips.

Solo was smiling even around his dick, and Illya groaned, dropping the belt to the floor with a _clang_ and yanking Napoleon's head back by the hair at his crown, pumping his cock only a few more times before spilling his release in hot spurts across Solo's pretty cheekbones. Solo had his mouth open and caught stripes of come on his tongue, and Illya pushed his cock back in idly as he came down, letting Solo suckle him clean while he massaged his scalp.

“Still don't feel like talking?” he asked once he'd recovered, at least a little. Solo gaped at him, his lips full and bitten and his pupils blown. Semen pooled at the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin, and Illya felt dizzy again, couldn't believe the uncanny realm their sex life had strayed into and couldn't believe how lucky he was.

Napoleon shook his head defiantly, gripping white-knuckled to the con. Illya growled and knelt in front of Solo, having fished the pocketknife from his coat pocket. He pressed it dull-edge-out against Solo's thigh, just above his femoral artery and close to his groin, spread by the way his knees were splayed. Solo squirmed but Illya watched his cock harden further in his trousers.

“Such pretty designer clothes. I wonder what people in the street would say if I sent you out with them tattered, all ruined and bound. Maybe would take advantage of situation, would fuck you, too. Though you would probably like that.” He pulled the fabric of Solo's pants taut and sliced through the linen easily, the tear echoing against the stone fireplace. He repeated this on the other side and cut up through the waistband, leaving a large square of fabric that he could pull back to reveal the American's cock, held by and leaking into his briefs. “You _slut_ ,” Illya said again, drinking in the sight. “You ruined your panties,” he leered, eyeing the wet spot. “You're all wet. I should put you in skirt, bend you over, treat you like woman with her legs spread wide.”

He tugged Solo's underwear down and pulled out his cock, dark and thick, framed by a pretty burst of soft black curls. It was nothing new to him, but he treated it as if it were, letting Napoleon indulge in a few languid moans and choked pleas as he stroked it root to tip, using the precome to slick his fingers. Then he cut the underwear away completely and reached back under Solo, running his wet fingers up and down the crack of his ass beneath his trousers, the angle a little awkward since the seat of them was still on, but – ah, there it was, Solo was whining and gaping at him and begging, now, and Illya thought he might come undone himself. “Not yet, милый. You have not earned this.”

He pulled back and turned Napoleon around, throwing him to the floor. “I will use you like woman,” he threatened, yanking Solo's loose trousers and near-halved underwear down to the ground, baring his taut ass as it was thrust up in the air. Solo's face pressed down to the hardwood, and his hips rocked in midair uselessly. Illya wrapped his body around his partner's, growling in his ear, “I should leave you here. Just like this, tied and ready to be fucked. Some of my colleagues can come and find you, and your cock would still be hard, and they'd fuck you one after another, using you like American cockslut you are. Never letting you come, not paying attention to your poor cock, and you would still beg them for it, to do it to you again. All you want is to be made into slave,” he smiled, enjoying the fantasy, “used for communist pleasure.”

Solo was choking back sobs as Illya worked his cock under him, frantically trying to rub against the light callouses on his hand. Illya built him up, over and over, tugging his balls back as he sensed him getting close, and then he would slap his ass with his belt, which he had folded over to half its length. This gave him control of its range of motion but still let it curl nicely around the other side of Napoleon's hip, digging the leather into the flesh hard enough to leave little welts.

Illya was a little lost in his own thoughts, in his own focus, but he thought he heard Napoleon speaking from below him. “Illya,” he said, really crying now, tears and sobs from earlier combining, “Illya, I don't think I can do this. I... Хватит. Please.” It wasn't really their safeword (Solo had used the wrong synonym) but Illya got the message, and pulled back immediately to fetch the handcuffs key from the table with Solo's personal items. He hurried back and unlatched the restraints and pulled Solo upward by his torso, wrapping one arm around his waist and using the other to massage his shoulders, to ease the strain of their previous position. He kissed down Solo's jaw from behind, both of them on their knees, Illya wrapped around Napoleon protectively.

Solo was trying to stop crying but he was really overwhelmed, Illya could see that, and he ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to be comforting. Soon enough, Solo calmed a little, and though Illya was curious, he resisted the urge to ask what had done it, what had crossed the line for Solo. He knew he would already feel bad enough, as he so rarely called off their games.

“It's OK, баловень,” he soothed, laying more kisses and nibbles against Solo's hot skin. “It's all right. Do you want me to finish you off? Do you want some water?”

Solo shook his head, grasping Illya's hands in his own, which were linked in front of him, now, and lay back against him, his head resting against his chest.

After a few moments of more relaxed silence, Solo finally spoke. “It was the belt,” he spat out, sounding defeated, and Illya was confused for a moment before placing it. Of course. Solo had been captured and beaten months ago in Cairo, narrowly escaping custody, and he had been weak and bruised when he finally rendezvoused with Illya.

“So sorry, Cowboy. I should have asked about it – I should have asked about the knife, too.” Solo shook his head, forcing out a laugh. “I liked the knife,” he admitted. “That, you have my explicit permission to do again. And the... the names. Those were good.”

Illya chuckled. “You are very low capitalist pig,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to Napoleon's neck.

“The wig is kind of stupid, though.”

“Wig was your idea!”

“I know. If you haven't noticed, Peril, I'm very inclined toward changing my mind.”


End file.
